


Two

by deathofaraven



Series: Prompt Responses [6]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Prompt Response, a little sad, if my writing here was a shade of purple it'd be fucking violet, set during the end of TRF so..., smooches
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-28
Updated: 2018-11-28
Packaged: 2019-09-01 13:28:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,889
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16766077
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deathofaraven/pseuds/deathofaraven
Summary: Even before he’d stepped out onto the roof, Sherlock had known this was unlikely to end well. The number of variables—of things he did and didn’t understand—were too numerous; the problems too pressing. The first problem was time. He had, maybe, ten minutes until John had figured out what had really happened and returned to the hospital. Ten minutes. Simultaneously no time and all the time in the world. It made the roof a more dangerous option than before, and yet— (no, stop that. Bide your time. Focus.) But there was a ticking through his veins that followed him as he ascended. Or maybe that was just his heart, (ticking away) stubbornly declaring its existence. What an unfortunate time to discover he had one.





	Two

**Author's Note:**

> It took two bottles of cider, four rewrites, way too much music, and an additional pair of drafts, but this is finally done. And now I collapse. Enjoy.
> 
> \---  
> For weweremadeforeachothersherlock
> 
> Prompt: "Fictional Kiss Prompt: being unable to open their eyes for a few moments afterward"  
> additional request: "rooftop kiss"

Even before he’d stepped out onto the roof, Sherlock had known this was unlikely to end well. The number of variables—of things he did and _didn’t_ understand—were too numerous; the problems too pressing. The first problem was time. He had, maybe, ten minutes until John had figured out what had really happened and returned to the hospital. Ten minutes. Simultaneously no time and all the time in the world. It made the roof a more dangerous option than before, and yet— ( _no, stop that. Bide your time. Focus.)_ But there was a ticking through his veins that followed him as he ascended. Or maybe that was just his heart, ( _ticking away_ ) stubbornly declaring its existence. What an unfortunate time to discover he had one.

Disco, offset by the tinny quality of strained speakers, greeted his arrival. His anxiety rose along with the beat. Failed to be quelled even as the song was forced to an early end. Jim Moriarty was his second, arguably far more important, problem. Sitting in wait for Sherlock with tragic disappointment etched into every facet of his being, he's a storm cloud that has threatened to swallow the sun whole. Sherlock retracted the thought a moment later: _not_ a single cloud, just a storm. A chaotic tumult, barely contained, lashing out at the world—at Sherlock—for daring to be _ordinary_ and _commonplace_. But there’s a gravity to Moriarty; it drags everything and everyone into his sphere. Rips them into confetti and tosses them to the wind in absent, coloured flurries.

The minutes tick by though it felt like time had stopped. For once, it feels like he can’t keep up. It’s a living nightmare of being unable to run fast enough ( _too slow, too slow, aren’t you supposed to be good at this?_ ) or of slipping off the edge of a precipice with only a fragile life line to support him; it could break at any second. ( _Don’t be daft. Use the code._ ) But there’s blood in the water now. Moriarty circling him—they’re magnets, Sherlock knows, repelling and drawing each other all at once. And Moriarty’s words are an opium fog, flowing around him in search of every little crack and break in his countenance. He can _feel_ the invisible fingers slipping beneath his façade. Sherlock revisited the thought that this wouldn’t end well.

(Sherlock decided scent memory was an inconvenient thing, if only because they’re close enough for him to catch a faint aroma of Moriarty’s cologne. It throws him entirely. Takes him back to it being tinged with chlorine and his own adrenalin at the pool. The warm undertones it had developed, seeping into the leather of his chair back home. And, _Christ_ , how many times had he found it lingering in the flat when it shouldn’t have been? Or twisted in his rumpled sheets, spiked with arousal, when no one should have been home? A distant part of him wondered if the flat would still smell right without vestiges of Moriarty’s cologne teasing him when he least expected it.)

At the five minute mark, he felt his proverbial lifeline snap. The shock thrummed through him, reverberating to fill the chambers of his heart with plaintive echoes. A note in the deep. And there’s no non-crass way to verbalise just how fucked he was. _“There is no key”_ , but if that’s the truth ( _lie, lie, he must be lying_ ) then what— Sherlock glanced toward the edge of the rooftop. Four stories hadn’t seemed very high up until now. Now the light breeze feels like a maelstrom, tugging at him, urging him closer—both to Moriarty and the edge. _L’appel du vide_.

( _No. Not dying today. Turn it around_.)

“I am _you_ —prepared to do anything; prepared to _burn_.” Last chance. One last attempt at finding a stable footing on crumbling ground. And, deep down, also an unspoken plea. _“Stop this. Change your mind. You don’t want the game to end any more than I do.”_ Every word tasted like burning. The syllables scrapped against the back of his throat and tongue, rendering them sticky and raw. With two minutes left to convince Moriarty, he’d never felt like more of a liar. The sentiment _was_ genuine but the _words_ were false. The knowledge expanded in his chest, pressed into his organs, flooded his lungs until he was no longer certain he could take a fully steady breath. Heavier than panic and headier than dread. But, underneath, deterred by the constant tugging of that urge to step closer.

He wondered briefly if winning would still count if it felt like a loss.

The exact moment Sherlock saw Moriarty’s resolve flicker felt like he’d been allowed a single gasping breath...but also like the beat before a strike landed. There was no proof he’d bought it. Nothing to say he thought Sherlock was truthful. For all his verbal agreement, Moriarty had become unreadable once more. But his words felt off-kilter; humming on the wind. The notes crept beneath Sherlock’s skin. Dripped in thin trickles down his spine; wrong for all he wanted it to be right. Even the vaguest hint of hope wasn’t enough to soothe him at that moment. Not with Moriarty looking at him like _that_. Eyes dark and boundless like the depths of the sea; mystified and searching. His name felt like the slap had _finally_ landed when it slipped, distant and almost solemn, from Moriarty’s lips.

No, this wasn’t victory. It was— Movement derailed his contemplation. _Handshake, embrace, or something more violent?_ The thought had barely entered his head before Moriarty’s hand fastened about Sherlock’s lapel. Tugged him down and— ( _Oh_.)

He didn’t immediately recognise the soft brush against his lips as a kiss. It was too careful, too fragile. A light pressure like the surface tension of water, only breaking to crash against him in waves and consume him once he finally let himself give into it. It should have been frantic but it was _so. slow_. The gentle whisper of breath against his lips. The tentative touch of flesh against flesh. Sensation falling away into a distant hum where nothing mattered but _the kiss_. Sherlock sighed into it. Immediately brought up a hand to steady himself against him as his other hand rose to tangle in Jim’s hair. To pull him closer as if they could possibly tangle any further into each other.

If he’d had enough forewarning to contemplate _how_ Jim would kiss him, he would have expected a taunt or a seduction. This was neither. It felt like sorrow and the tang of loss—still sharp with the freshness of oncoming grief, not yet marred by old bitterness. It tasted like goodbye. Like unspoken words clinging to the back of his throat.

He pressed back into him in silent protest, adjusted the angle to coax a whimper from him. If he knew how, Sherlock would have poured his thoughts into this. ( _Want you; afraid of you._ ) Would have pressed the words into his flesh if it would have given them the appropriate weight. Instead he did little more than bask in the warmth of Jim’s body against his. Felt the commingling of their heartbeats against his chest. Was it supposed to be this… _nice_? This warm? Was it supposed to feel like flying and falling all wrapped up in one? If so, he didn’t want it to stop.

Sherlock’s hands drifted down the front of Jim’s coat. Caught in the waistband of his trousers to anchor them both as Jim deepened the kiss. ( _Mine, mine…are you?_ ) Shivered at the almost needy tug of fingers in his curls. His hands slipped under Jim’s jacket and he marvelled that he wasn’t a notion or phantasm of Sherlock’s mind, but was ( _warm_ ) really here. He made the mistake of letting his hand slip back, over Jim’s hip, and felt the first crack form in his contentment. ( _A gun? A gun. Oh, Jim…really?_ ) He pulled the gun free with one hand and grasped Jim’s chin with the other. Kissed him with a confidence he didn’t currently have. Shivered at the taunt of Jim’s tongue brushing his lips.

It ended even slower than it began, fading out with the surety of a final breath. Slipped softly away. Sherlock pulled back just enough to see Jim’s expression. If nothing good could come out of today, he wanted to remember _this_ : the faint flush that had stained Jim’s cheeks. The way his closed eyes shifted like an addict lost in their high. The hazy, euphoric smile that flickered with every shallow breath. Awash in a peace-filled contentment that seemed entirely foreign to him. In that moment, Sherlock thought Jim looked beautiful—such a _strange_ concept but the only one that fit.

But, in the time it took to steady his breath and let go, he was already aware the moment had begun to fade. Slipped away on gossamer wings to never return. If that had been goodbye, then this was the end. ( _Don’t want it to end; a restart, a chance! Another moment, please!_ )

Sherlock cast his gaze down to the gun in his right hand. His warmth had begun to bleed into the metal; his pulse thudded against it. A morose drumbeat. Echoing. Echoing. _Echoing_. He sniffed and shifted the gun to his other hand. If this was the game Moriarty wanted to play, he wouldn’t let it be an easy goodbye. He pulled Jim back in to press his lips to his forehead; benediction in all but name. Tossed the gun out of reach. Sherlock flinched at the sound of metal scraping against stone as it skittered away. At the feel of the breath that shuddered through Jim in response.

“That was _cruel_ of you, Sherlock.” His eyes slowly opened, lashes brushing against Sherlock’s cheek.

Sherlock stepped back once more, not yet far enough to make Moriarty release him. “I can’t make it _too_ easy for you.”

The words felt harsher than he’d meant them to, a deep scratch instead of a caress. But wasn’t everything about this mired in cruelty? First having to choose between his friends and himself, and now _this_. It would have been kinder to never know, even for one minute, what having him would have felt like. But this was what losing— _really losing_ —felt like, wasn’t it? Pained emptiness and broken glass; stomach acid searing at the back of his tongue. No one would win today.

Moriarty stared up at him, hand still resting on Sherlock’s lapel. He studied him openly. Traced the contours of his features as if cementing him in his memory for as long as it would last. Eternity and not long at all. “Thirty seconds left on your toy soldier,” he murmured. “Have you solved it yet? Do you know how to _stop them_?”

There was a quiet taunt in his voice, prodding carefully at the seams of Sherlock’s hastily reconstructed façade. Struggling to seep into the cracks again. Sherlock didn’t immediately react. Instead he watched him, eyes flicking downward to watch as he lapped once at his lower lip. Perfectly still, he turned his attention back to the ledge. To the fall beyond it and John’s imminent arrival beyond _that_. For the first time in days, Sherlock felt like actually smiling. “ _Yes_ ; I think I have.”


End file.
